by Kate Sorbara
In the cold and dark between Christmas and equinox,
wind and snow shift back and forth.
The house creaks and feet are icy. Strawberries
are sent from Chile and cost fifty cents apiece.
Mornings I start a fire, fret over coffee.
Birds are scarce, the cats stay close to home.
The mailman runs through his route.
Inside the house we are cranky and sullen,
stingy and sour. We come and go
alone, he takes his coffee in the car.
On the green chairs in the hall the cats lie side by side,
get up to wrestle, lick each other. They eat together.
Now and then the little children come to pull their tails.
Low winter sun slants across the quiet room,
touches my face on its path. Warmth and light
from somewhere. There is a silent opening into hope.
Not hope of change. Nothing will be different.
Yet every mote that rides the air belongs.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 1